Caveat Emptor
by PinkFreud
Summary: Immortality is more than he bargained for; hating him is the only thing that makes her feel alive.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Caveat Emptor**

**Author: PinkFreud**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: **Immortality is more than he bargained for; hatred for him is the only thing that makes her feel alive.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, obviously, or any of the poetry quotes in italics.**

**A/N **I've wanted to write fics for Heroes for awhile, and I knew that when I finally did I'd have to write about Sylar because I have this weird need to humanize a villain. It's my weakness. The title is Latin for ''let the buyer beware.'' Please review.

''_**I envy you your chance of death, how I envy you this''—H.D.**_

**Claire**

She didn't think he could feel love.

Claire was staring out the window, nervously twirling her hair through her fingers, glaring at the moon, thinking about him and wondering in the back of her addled mind why the hell she was thinking about him at all. It was hatred, she supposed. Hatred could give you a remarkable focus. It swam through your blood like love, a force just as strong but simply antithetical.

''_How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?''_ Who cared? And why did he choose that moment, with his fingers worming their way around her exposed brain, to become so philosophical? She was repulsed that she was witness to that, to his musings which seemed almost human. She was repulsed because his nearly childlike wonderings in that brief moment softened him into something else, something that she couldn't bring herself to hate. He must have done that on purpose, sadistic monster that he was.

Angels were something holy. He was the most unholy person she'd ever encountered.

Claire yanked on her hair, yanked so hard that when she pulled her hand back it was full of golden strands. It didn't hurt, of course. She had him to thank for that. ''_How many angels can dance…_''

Still, everybody knew that the devil was once an angel. Could the devil feel pain, wondered Claire, or could he only inflict it?

And _love_—he had the nerve to mention love, while destroying her soul as he effectively stripped her of her humanity. ''_How do you make love stay_?'' She didn't think he could feel love. But more so, as she continued to gaze out the window, she _hoped_ that he couldn't feel love. Because she was having a difficult time feeling it. She was having a difficult time feeling any emotion, which was why she adored this hatred so much…it was like a throbbing pulse beat that let her be sure that she hadn't yet lost herself completely. But there was still a ragged, hollow place in her chest, and Claire felt like her heart had been ripped from her.

Numbness was spreading like cancer, traveling through her veins. _Bleed._ As if to purge herself of something and shock her flesh into life, Claire swung a fist out and crashed it into the mirror hanging beside her on the wall. Blood trickled silently and painlessly down her hand and arm in a mocking red river, and then ran no more as the wound closed itself seamlessly. She bit back a scream and wrapped her arms around herself, leaving blood stains on her white shirt, perversely loving the way that the red color stood out so shockingly bright, hoping that it would never wash away. ''At least I still bleed,'' the young woman thought to herself, closing her eyes and making a mental note to bleed a little every day. In this way, she would be reminded of her humanity, however briefly. The blood would tell a story.

''_**O let not time deceive you, you cannot conquer time.''—W.H. Auden**_

**Sylar**

For the first time, he truly entertained the thought of immortality.

Though the notion is a seductive and tantalizing one for a mortal, once it is achieved, after the brief euphoria—''I'll _never _die!!''—the reality and eventual horror sets in—''I'll _never die_.'' Eternity, the absence of time, weighs far more heavily than time itself. Thank god for death; at least then time can be measured. Sixty years, eighty years, but still there is a certain framework, a memento mori with each _tick _that reminds you that one day you will simply stop working, like a broken clock.

He has never been more terrified before, and this terror he will carry with him forever, which is as long as he will live. Sylar has stopped looking at clocks and watches, now they sicken him, mock him. Now he does not want to repair them, he wants to break them. He wants to shatter every spring and gear so that he does not have to be reminded that there is nothing left for him to measure, to dread, to wait for or hope for. Nothing.

He wants to see her, because she's like him. She's now the only one who can understand this terror. _Poor girl._ She did this to him. Rationally, he knows that it wasn't her fault; the angelic little cheerleader didn't deliberately infect him with immortality, he took it from her. Poor, lonely girl. Except now she wasn't so alone. She'd made him like her. Or rather, he'd sliced open her head and made himself like her, but either way, now there was a undeniable connection that Sylar didn't quite know how to understand. He smiled to himself; the smile passed over his face like a shadow, and then vanished. He knew her better than anyone in the world. There was a power in that.

''_**I wish more from his presence, though he torture me in a grasp, terrible, intense''—H.D.**_

**Claire**

Claire fell asleep on her bed, still in her blood-stained shirt, and dreamed that Sylar came to see her. She let him in through the front door and didn't run away, just let him follow her through the house and upstairs to her room. They were both wearing black clothes, but everything else in the room was white. She pulled out a knife, and so did he. She struck, stabbing him through the heart, knowing it was absolutely useless, slicing every exposed area of his skin, knowing that all the wounds would close, but still lashing out frantically, trying to create as many injuries as she could, trying to make him bleed as much as possible, trying to stain the white walls and carpets with a reminder that she _had_ hurt him, even for a moment. Fleeting revenge preserved in red.

He let her cut at him, not striking back, just watching her with empty eyes, holding the knife in his hand, not daring a move. ''Cut me!!'' she screamed at him, in a voice so hate-filled and hysterical that Claire barely recognized it as her own. ''Hurt me!! Do something!'' But her enemy was still silent, like some unholy martyr. The walls and floor were forever stained scarlet, but it brought no comfort.

''_**I will show you fear in a handful of dust''-T.S. Eliot**_

Sylar didn't usually remember his dreams, but that night, he did. He dreamed that he went to see the cheerleader; he climbed in through her bedroom window and saw that she'd repainted everything white. The walls and curtains were white, even the bedspread and carpet were white. The blankness of it all was violently disturbing. She was sitting on the bed, wearing a long black dress.

Claire raised her head to look at him with eyes like an abyss, a bottomless well leading down into the wasteland that her soul had become. Something inside him said: ''it's all _your_ fault.'' Her terrible eyes echoed this same accusation, but her mouth didn't move, until she finally spoke and said, ''you can't kill me.'' She said this so sadly; her voice sounded like ashes being tossed on an autumn wind. ''I keep hoping you'll come here to kill me, and then I remember that you can't. I wish you could.''

She got up from the bed and walked over to him. Averting her eyes, she took his hand and led him out the door and into the hallway, which was also that same stark white color. But at the very end of the hallway, a painting hung on the wall. Cringing, Sylar almost turned away. He'd always hated that painting, _The Persistence of Memory_ by Salvador Dali, but at that moment those freakish, melted clocks were somehow the most horrifying thing he'd ever seen.

Claire was staring at the painting. She was holding his hand, but he couldn't feel anything. Not the pressure of her fingers, or the warmth of her skin. ''Forever and ever,'' she mumbled, still staring, ''forever and ever, amen, forever and ever and ever…'' she continued to chant this like a mournful litany until he awoke, shivering and gasping, with her voice still ringing in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N I think this is going to be a chapter story, just because it's fun to write. Thanks to everyone who reviewed so far; I love you guys and think you're wonderful.

**Claire**

She went to the library.

Claire hadn't spent much time in libraries, but that day she was skipping school and found herself both depressed and without a destination. The sky was dark and threatening; the wind was picking up and sending leaves and twigs flying around her as she walked up the long flight of steps to reach the front doors. It was eight fifty three, and the library opened at nine. Claire stood outside and waited, along with a few other early patrons. She pulled her jacket more tightly around herself and wondered how she'd suddenly become so dorky. But it didn't matter.

Soon Claire heard a key turning in the lock, and the doors were opened by a young, tired-looking librarian. Claire filed in beside the other waiting patrons, who were mostly old ladies with plastic caps over their hair to protect them from the rain. The librarian smiled at her. Claire forced herself to smile back, but the smile was weak and breaking.

**Sylar**

He'd been following her since she left the house.

He followed her through the lashing wind, along the street to the library. Sylar was well-practiced in the art of stalking, and he knew how to stay hidden from her sight, yet still give himself the perfect view of his prey. _Prey_. No, that wasn't the right word, he mused as he watched her walk swiftly along the sidewalk, her lovely blond hair tumbling out from beneath the hood of her jacket; he wasn't stalking her with the intent to harm. All the harm that could be done had already occurred, and so now she was simply something that intrigued him, something that he was following for the hell of it.

Sylar told himself that this was because he was bored. He told himself that it was because obsessions died hard; even though he'd already taken from her what he needed, it would take awhile for the predator instinct to wear off. He told himself a thousand different things, made a thousand different excuses for his behavior to cover up the fact that he didn't have a good, sound, rational reason for following Claire, other than he simply _wanted_ to, because her very presence in the universe somehow made him feel less alone.

**Claire**

Claire sat down in an armchair with a book. She actually liked to read; there was a stereotype surrounding cheerleaders, that they were dumb and shallow and didn't like to think too hard. But even before Claire Bennet had to think very deeply about things that most human beings should never have to comprehend, she wasn't stupid, and she cared very deeply.

The wind howled like a demon outside, and the rain started to clatter on the roof, but inside the library it was bright and warm and Claire felt the brief, deceptive twinge of comfort and safety. She opened to the first page of Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_ and started to read.

**Sylar**

Sylar liked this library. In fact, he decided, he liked the concept of a library in general. All of that knowledge, ready for the taking, without the bloodshed, without the need to slice heads open and pry it out. He glanced over at Claire, who was still oblivious to the fact that she was being watched. She was very focused on the book she was reading; it was oddly pleasant to see her so engrossed in something besides evolution, conspiracy, and immortality. Sylar shook that thought away, troubled by the fact that he was staring at her with something perilously close to tenderness in his heart.

Still, though, he couldn't help but grin at the memory of that brief conversation he'd had with Noah Bennet the day that they were assigned as partners. ''_You really don't know her at all_,'' Sylar had said, and had been almost delighted by the look of outrage on Noah's face. He hadn't said it deliberately to push any buttons, he was simply being honest; he knew and understood the girl better than anyone else on the planet ever could, especially now. He'd been inside her head, had seen the way she worked, the near-miraculous way that every single piece fit together. _Special girl._ So blindingly unique. And he was the only one who fully realized that. It nearly made him dizzy.

Forcing himself to look away from her, nearly disgusted with himself that he'd been staring so long, he pulled open a copy of _Dracula_ and started reading.

**Claire**

Gabriel was a beautiful name.

Claire realized this when she was halfway through _Frankenstein_ and the young librarian walked by with two children in Catholic school uniforms. ''And you're looking for information about angels?'' the librarian asked them. The boy nodded, adjusting his neck tie. ''Yeah, the important ones.''

''The important ones…'' echoed the librarian, obviously at a loss.

''You know,'' piped up the girl, ''like Michael, and Rafael…''

''And Gabriel,'' added the boy. '' 'Cause like, he's probably the most important.''

''No, he _isn't_!'' the girl responded indignantly. ''Michael is _way_ more important.''

The librarian rubbed her temples and motioned for the two squabbling kids to follow her into the stacks. They did so, continuing to debate over which angel was better.

Claire froze when she heard the name Gabriel. Something icy flipped over in her stomach and seemed to send a splash of cold water all through her blood. She knew that Gabriel was…_his_ real name, and it seemed so ironic that it had been given to such a demonic person. Claire had to acknowledge that it was a beautiful name, one that she'd love to be able to say more often. It was uncommon, not that many people she knew were named Gabriel, besides _him_ of course, but she'd never had the opportunity to call him by his given name, only his twisted alias.

Her stomach hurt. She didn't want to be thinking about this. Claire turned to another page in her book just as the librarian walked back, carrying a handful of books, the two children close at her heels. ''I'm sure,'' she was saying to them, ''that god loves all his angels equally.''

''God loves _people_ more than angels,'' the boy responded. ''That's why Lucifer got thrown out of heaven. 'Cause he was jealous. He wanted to be the most special.''

''That so?'' answered the librarian dully, looking as though this was far too much theology for one day.

The little girl, who had been silent during this time, pulled on the sleeve of the librarian's sweater and asked, ''Hey, can you look up how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?''

''Nobody knows that, stupid!'' said the boy, still fiddling with his tie.

''Don't call her stupid,'' the librarian reprimanded him, struggling under the weight of her stack of books. To the little girl, she said, ''honey, nobody knows the answer to that question. It's one of those little mysteries. If you ever meet the angel Gabriel, you can ask him.'' They walked off towards the front desk, and Claire drew in a breath.

Her fingers, gripping the book so tightly she nearly snapped the spine, were cold and clammy.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Thanks to all my reviewers! Oh, and by the way, for this story at least, let's just pretend that Sylar and Claire are **not **related.

**Claire**

It was a sad book.

Sitting in the library, Claire found herself almost weeping at the plight of Dr. Frankenstein's monstrous creation, all alone in an unwelcoming world, something inhuman yet fighting to belong. He didn't ask for life, it was the fault of a selfish scientist trying to play god, to create something which should never have existed.

Crying was good. Tears weren't blood, but at least they were a reminder. Maybe a better reminder: still human; not quite numb yet. He hadn't won.

**Sylar**

Vampires drank blood because they had to. It was, Sylar mused, an _evolutionary imperative._ He so loved that phrase. Dracula couldn't help what he was; it was his _nature_ to sink his teeth into the fragile flesh of a human throat. That was the way he thrived, the way he stayed mobile, the way he stayed _immortal_.

Count Dracula was probably a perfectly amiable guy most of the time, but when he heard that pulse beat, like the _tick tick_ of a watch, the need to feed became overwhelming. In order for Dracula, or any vampire, to have a halfway decent relationship, thought Sylar as he turned the pages of Stoker's famous novel, there would need to be no temptation. Hence the idea of turning a human into a vampire, of cursing them to an eternity of bloodlust. Both undead, neither alone, neither needing to take from the other anymore. And the mortal, sunlit world would cower in fear.

Claire was crying. Something inside Sylar twisted painfully as he watched her. He didn't need anything from her anymore, why did he care what happened to the brat? Why did he suddenly want to know what was making her so sad, what in that stupid old book had caused tears to spill slowly down her pretty, soft skin?

Something had happened the minute he sliced open that beautiful skull, the minute he _understood._ There was always a certain danger in seeking too much knowledge, all the old myths and stories warned against it. You'd inevitably wind up cursed, with so much more than you intended or could comprehend.

She was the curse, that lovely, crying girl. He could feel her in his blood. He had nothing left to take from her, but he wouldn't give her up.

**Claire**

Frankenstein's monster wanted someone like him. He was a unique horror who would never be embraced by humanity, but another, just as horrific and equally damned, would make the endless days on a hostile earth bearable.

That was such a universal need, thought Claire to herself as she perused the shelves in search of another book, the need to have another like you, the need to not feel so terribly and nakedly alone.

But now, she acknowledged with a sinking, sick feeling, she _wasn't_ alone. There was one person who was more like her than any other, who knew more about her than even she knew about herself. Unconsciously, Claire raised a hand to graze her fingertips across her forehead. ''_What did you see in there_?'' she wanted to ask Sylar. He'd left without allowing her to know just why she was so different from the others. Was it just healing and immortality? Or had he seen something else, some great answer within the wrinkled, twisted pink mass inside her skull? _How do you make love stay?_

The rain was still pounding insistently on the library roof as the hours slid by like droplets of water on a pane of glass. As late afternoon approached, Claire left, picking up her backpack and heading towards the front desk. She checked out _Lord of the Flies_, which she had begun to read and wanted to finish.

Sylar stole a copy of _Heart of Darkness_, and followed Claire out onto the sidewalk.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Thank you to all my reviewers; you guys are fantastic and I'm glad you like the story.

**Claire**

People were crazy.

Claire decided this after her mother, or her _adoptive_ mother (because she had to remind herself now that she had two mothers) yelled at her for about ten years because she skipped school. Claire made an attempt to care, but it was in vain. She didn't give a shit, and there was something oddly liberating about that.

She stomped around her room for a few minutes, pacing moodily back and forth, hating both of her fathers and both of her mothers, hating her grandmother and even briefly hating Peter. This hatred invigorated her so that it was as if she'd drunk about three cups of coffee. She felt wired, acidic with rage.

She wouldn't go to school tomorrow, either, Claire decided. Watch them try and make her. Maybe she'd go back to the library. Glancing at the copy of _Lord of the Flies_ on her bed, she wondered if people really could become like animals, given the right conditions.

They probably could. People were crazy.

Slamming into the bathroom, still nearly manic with anger, Claire turned on the shower, turned on the hot water as far as it would go. She waited while steam clouded around her, obscuring her vision of herself in the mirror. Stripping off her clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor, Claire climbed into the shower. The water was now so hot that it would have landed a normal person in the emergency room, but Claire didn't feel it. She stood numbly under the spray until she was sure that some damage had been done, then quickly climbed out and wiped the fog off of the mirror so that she could turn around and briefly see over her shoulder that huge pink-red blisters had formed across her back. Then, the mirror slowly clouded up again as her skin repaired itself.

Lamely, Claire climbed back into the shower stall and turned the water back to a normal temperature. Then, actually, it became rather pleasant. Not hot enough to scald, just warm enough to be almost comforting.

**Sylar**

_Go home, Gabriel_, Sylar chided himself, standing outside in the darkness and feeling like an idiot for having followed the cheerleader all day. Making a face, he realized that he'd called himself by his given name. He didn't have a home to go to. And though it was night, anywhere he slept he'd be alone and have horrible dreams and be consumed with the thought of his immortality.

''My name is Sylar,'' he said aloud. There was nobody around to reply, just night and rain.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a knife. A cloud passed by enough so that the moonlight had a brief chance to shine through. Sylar slashed the skin of his palm, watched as blood flowed for a minute, then stopped. Another rain cloud blotted out the weak light of the moon, leaving him once again in darkness.

**Claire**

Maybe she'd run away.

She didn't have a destination, didn't care. Claire just knew that she couldn't stay where people demanded that she try to be something that she wasn't. A normal seventeen year old girl? Yeah, right. Like she could summon the energy worry about getting into college and going on dates, getting her hair done and reading fashion magazines. It angered her that both of her fathers had abandoned her and both of her mothers were oblivious to her suffering, that they wouldn't acknowledge the horror that her life had become.

She thought about Sylar. ''I'll hurt you, you bastard,'' she said aloud. Her voice echoed through the room.The threat seemed empty, even to her. She couldn't hurt him. He was like her. All the wounds would just close up again. And she couldn't hurt him emotionally, either, because that would involve destroying something that he loved, and he didn't love anything.

''I'll _find_ you,'' Claire said determinedly, and this threat sounded a bit more realistic. Even if they couldn't harm each other, if she was face to face with Sylar she could at least look into his eyes and feel enough hate to blister her soul and keep her stinging for a hundred years.

She glanced over at the empty space on the wall where the mirror used to be. Early this morning she'd swept up all the pieces of broken glass, except for one, and thrown them away. Claire wasn't certain why she'd saved one lone shard, perhaps because it was a tangible reminder, like her blood-stained shirt, that she'd been alive and human and angry enough to smash and break and bleed. That old superstition claimed that breaking a mirror brought you seven years of bad luck. Claire almost laughed, wondering how her luck could possibly become worse.

It bothered her, though, the blank space which had once provided her with her reflection, so reliable. _Where am I_? She thought. _Where did I go_?

Swept out with the broken pieces, into the trash. Thrown away in shattered splinters, all except for one.

Walking over to her night table, Claire yanked the drawer open and pulled out her white shirt, marked with blood that was fading into that sickly brownish-maroon color. Wrapped up inside it was the jagged piece of mirror that she'd saved. Claire held it up in front of her face, and saw her own sad, tired eyes staring back at her. This was not a reflection she could admire. The shard wasn't large enough to reflect her entire face, and so showed only half a person, half a life, half a soul.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Caveat Emptor: Part II _ Why, Claire?_

Rating: T

Author: PinkFreud

Disclaimer: I own nothing

A/N I think it's about damn time I updated, don't you?? Thanks to all my readers for being so wonderfully patient!

Sylar looks down at his arm, at the face tattooed with perfect detail on his skin. She looks like she belongs there. Like she has answers that are somehow a part of him. They can be his answers now, too.

She's still trying so damned hard to be normal, to go to college, make friends, have relationships…and she's nearly succeeding, in spite of it all. Sylar's stomach twists slightly in an unpleasant way when he looks at that tall, gangly girl named Gretchen who Claire seems to care about so much, seems to want to open up to. What is that revolting feeling he feels as he observes their closeness, their clumsy intimacy? Jealously? Why jealousy?

Because what does gangly Gretchen know about Claire Bennet? Nobody knows the cheerleader like Sylar does, he's been inside her head—literally. But not inside her soul. Which matters more?

He observes Claire through the window, watching her smile, casual and at ease with herself and her new girlfriend. She almost looks…happy. But then on occasion there come those looks in her eyes that reveal far too much, too much of the past comes spilling around the edges, changing her, and then Sylar sees with relief that she is still the Claire he knows so very well, still the one who is really just like him. But she will never smile at him the way she smiles at Gretchen, she will never move with the same ease and trust; she will always regard him with fear and disgust and for this more than anything else Sylar hates himself.

He wants to turn back the clock, change himself back into a shy watchmaker, someone that she never knew, someone that she could possibly smile at, laugh with.

He'd seen her blood and her anger and her rage, but never her soul. He decides now, the soul matters more.

Strangely enough, Sylar blends in well on this college campus, he looks like an emo lit major who should be lugging a copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ with him everywhere. He has a seat for a few minutes on a bench and looks around at the people, becoming part of the show, pretending to belong.

As he sits he has strange daydreams about an alternate universe where he really _is_ an emo lit major, sitting on a bench, not unlike this one, and he sees a beautiful blonde girl walk by, all sunshine and smiles, suntan and blue eyes. And he hears someone call her Claire, saying ''see you, Claire'' and watches her smile and tuck a strand of hair behind her ears. And as she walks by where he is sitting, all pensive and literary, she flashes him a small, shining smile, and he smiles back.

But that is not this bench, not this life. And that is not a smile that she will ever show to him, just for him. And this is why he hates himself. She's the key to all of his self-loathing, because she shows him, with one single glance, just how horrible he really is, how much he has lost, and how alone he always will be. That's the answer. That's why it has to be Claire Bennet on his skin, mocking him.

She gives him her angry looks, her rage. She closes herself off, blinds herself to his soul, the soul that he wants to offer to her; she sees only the monster in him.

Cutting her open will no longer work, there's nothing to see there, nothing but blood and tubes and wires. Seeing the inner workings of a soul requires a gentler process.

He leans over her, then brings his lips down onto hers. He feels her squirm slightly, feels a shudder of revulsion pass through her body, but she keeps her warm lips very still. He kisses her softly but with a depth and intimacy that even he finds alarming. And then it's almost as if he's moving through her, in her soul, seeking and asking and searching and possibly finding. He feels her fear. And then there is the loneliness. He wants to say to her, ''see, I'm here—look at me, see me with you, I'm just like you—'' But somehow he is further away from her, from himself, from anyone than he has ever been and even though he is locked with her in this twisted and intimate embrace he knows that they are both so very painfully alone. This is the realization. He wants to pull away but at the exact same time he wants to stay pressed to her forever. This is why he hates himself. And maybe Claire alone was not the answer, maybe this moment is. Maybe they both are the answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Caveat Emptor, Part II _Shadow_

Rating: T

Author: PinkFreud

This place is an island, where she can hide and pretend that she is an ordinary girl. There are moments when she forgets the past, forces it into a far corner of her mind and locks it away. She smiles, and she smile does not feel forced, it feels natural and real, and these are the moments when Claire Bennet feels the most human. But the shadows always slip through the cracks and then grow in size and loom ever larger, back with a terrible vengeance to remind her just how far from ordinary, far from happy that she really is.

There is just so much that she can never tell, never express. All of the screaming in the world would not be enough; she could yell for days on end, at the top of her lungs, but there would still be more left to say, twisting around inside of her. Strangely enough, the hidden sadness, the separateness, the shadows, are as much of an island, as much of a safe haven to her as the false reality in which she is a perfectly normal college girl. And all of the rage and grief is as much a comfort and reminder of her humanity as a natural smile. She just does not know which one is a safer place, anymore. And this, more than anything else, is the reason that Claire Bennet is truly alone.

His humanity is jarring to her. Face to face she should be able to hate him more strongly than ever, but not at this moment; in this moment, looking into Sylar's dark eyes, Claire _does_ see the trace of a soul, of a person, of something human and worthwhile, even something familiar, but she cannot let this be: it is upsetting the already precarious balance of her life and emotions. She has to hate him; it's in her blood. Without her hatred for this man, who is she, really? Is all of her anger, her reality then a lie? And without these sharp pangs of bitter hatred and seething rage is she really herself?

She feels like if she allows herself to see this soul in him, so evident in his eyes, part of her will cease to exist. He thinks they are alike, she and him. Claire pushes the thought away, dismisses it, denies it with all of the strength that she has left. Her Intro to Psychology class comes back to haunt her, she hears echoes of the Professor talking about Carl Jung, about his concept of the Shadow self, how the more you try to deny the Shadow, the stronger it becomes, the more fragmented a person you in turn become; one side of yourself eternally pitted against the other.

And here is Claire Bennet's Shadow self, standing before her in the body of a man, of her greatest enemy.

Only by accepting and integrating the Shadow self can a person truly be whole. When Sylar bends down to kiss her she is terrified. More terrified than she was when he sliced her head wide open and wormed his fingers around in her brain. He kisses her very softly, very gently. It is a quiet kiss, an intimate kiss. There is something frantic behind it, though, a wild urgency kept simmering low. Like he's sliding around inside of her, looking for something, but more than that, he's kissing her like she's important, like she matters, like nothing matters more than this instant, this contact. Like he's begging her for something.

And for one awful moment, Claire wants to give it to him, whatever it is, to cease this awful dance of hatred once and for all. To pull him closer and closer until they simply dissolve, until there are no questions anymore, no shadows in the corners of their minds, no loathing, no deception, no _anything_, just one moment of clear understanding and belonging. And this is what terrifies Claire Bennet more than anything else ever has.


End file.
